


love is a mere trifle, and comes layer by layer

by Stacicity



Series: triptych [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), M/M, something soft and fluffy for your weekend, the inherent adoration of jam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: It's just a bit of fun after a drunken night - nothing special, nothing unusual - but it happens again, and again, and again.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: triptych [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718092
Comments: 71
Kudos: 430





	love is a mere trifle, and comes layer by layer

Martin had been standing in Tim’s shower for what felt like ten minutes, now, staring at the knobs and dials. It was a shower. It should have been self-explanatory and simple, user-friendly, but it looked like an alien spaceship and Martin’s brain was pounding on the inside of his skull and he didn’t have the energy to cope with it. He leaned forward, forehead against cold tiles, stifling a groan. 

_God_. He hated being hungover. It was why he didn’t drink much to begin with and yet Tim had coaxed him out for a pint, and then another, and then another with a round of jagerbombs, and then-

And then there’d been dancing, and Sasha had left, and Tim’s arm had slid around his shoulders, and they’d been pressed close on the way to the bus stop, huddled against the cold, and then-

And then Tim’s lips on his, tasting of beer and red bull and the cigarette he’d charmed off two women by the door of the pub, and then “mine’s probably closer than going all the way back to the Archives, y’know” and-

And here he was. Hungover and staring at Tim’s ridiculous shower. Martin sucked in a breath, turned a dial and got a spray of freezing cold water to his face. 

* * * 

Apparently the universe in all its infinite wisdom had seen fit to gift Tim the ability to shrug off hangovers like they were nothing. When Martin heaved himself downstairs, damp-haired and bleary-eyed, Tim was humming to himself by the toaster, bouncing from foot to foot in a sort of half-dance that looked far too energetic for this time in the morning. Martin watched the movement of his muscles under his skin, trailed his eyes down his spine like fingers until Tim turned at the sound of footsteps and gave that sunbeam smile of his. 

“Hey, you. Thought you’d gone into hibernation.” 

“It’s half nine, Tim,” Martin muttered, leaning against the doorframe and dragging a hand over his face. “And I’m dead. Don’t talk to me.” 

“Ah, gotcha. Full Nosferatu.” Tim nodded sagely, pressing a mug of tea into Martin’s hands. “That’ll bring you back to life.” 

“How are you so energetic?” 

Tim just shrugged, one shoulder up and down, and Martin couldn’t help but look at the bruise on his collarbone. God. Had he done that? Must have done, he remembered the broken little sound Tim had made when he’d pressed his teeth in, the way he’d gripped at his hair and gasped. Hm. 

“What d’you have on your toast?” Tim asked, already rifling through the cupboards. “We have, er - honey, marmite, those chocolate sprinkles they put on bread in the Netherlands-”

“Strawberry jam?” Martin looked up hopefully and Tim shook his head. 

“Sorry, nope.” 

“Honey, then. Thank you.” Martin took a sip of tea and smiled a bit. One sugar, just how he liked it. Even hungover and miserable it was hard not to feel fond of Tim. Ridiculous, cheeky, brilliant Tim. “When did you go to the Netherlands?”

“I’ve not been since I went to Amsterdam in uni, but my cousin went on a business trip to Rotterdam and grabbed some when she was out there.” 

Martin nodded, watching Tim grab a plate, a knife, a jar of marmite. “Don’t know how you can eat that,” he teased, and Tim rolled his eyes. 

“ _Some_ of us were raised with class,” he tutted. “So, you’re feeling like death warmed up, yeah? Didn’t expect you to be such a demon on the dance floor, Marto. Sash says she’s going to drag you out swing dancing.” 

“Mmhm.” Another sip of tea. “She’ll have to wait ‘til I’m alive again, but - yeah. Alright. It was fun. And, um-” Martin trailed off, trying to wake himself up a bit because he was in Tim’s _kitchen_. Tim was shirtless, just in pyjama bottoms, bare feet and bedhead and bruises on his shoulders, this deserved to be savoured. “Afterwards?” 

“Mm?” Tim crunched on a corner of toast, slammed two more slices into the toaster and leaned back against the counter with his coffee. He paused when he saw Martin’s expression, frowned a bit. “Oh. Right, er - no regrets, I hope?” 

“No! God, no, I - it was lovely, _you_ were lovely, I just-” Martin made a face, flapping a hand vaguely through the air. “Sorry. Not coherent enough for this. I just, um-” he trailed off again and Tim snorted, set his mug down so he could take a step closer and settle a hand against Martin’s shoulder. 

“Just a bit of fun?”

“Right,” Martin sighed, relieved. Was that the decision? Right, yes, good. That felt like solid ground, at least. It was a bit of fun.

“Sure. I mean, someone’s got to drag you out of the crypts for a night once in a while or you’ll turn into Jon, and one vampire in the team is enough, thanks.” 

“He’s not a _vampire_ , don’t be rude,” Martin huffed, but moved his arms out of the way so Tim could come in for a hug, let himself relax into it a bit. Right. A bit of fun. That - yeah, alright. God bless Tim for not letting him make this awkward, he made _everything_ awkward, he was all left feet in his big mouth and it was a relief to just relax and know that things were okay. Tim probably did this all the time, anyway. 

Tim held on for a moment longer than Martin expected before stepping away, spreading butter and honey on the next two slices of toast and handing them off to Martin. “I’m _allowed_ to be rude to him, I’ve known him longer than you.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.” 

It felt surprisingly okay leaving, honey on his lips and lingering pressure on his shoulders where Tim had hugged him. His head was still _pounding_ , but just with the after-effects of jaegerbomb, not with worry. They’d be okay.

* * * 

Tim nudged the door to Martin’s makeshift room with his hip and settled on the end of the cot like he’d been invited, a bottle of wine in each hand. 

“Hey! Quiet night in?” 

“Um.” Martin looked up from where he was curled in the corner, feet underneath him, pen in one hand and notebook in the other. “It’s, er- what? I mean, don’t you have plans?” 

“Sort of. I’m on a mission from a higher power.” 

“I don’t think there are any deities that want you to drink wine with me in the Archives, Tim.” 

“Deities? No no no, I’m talking about Sasha.” 

“I- what?” 

“Sash says you’ve spent the last three Fridays sitting in here on your own. And since it’s near-enough the monthiversary of your escape from spooky worm woman, I thought that called for a celebratory drink or six,” Tim held up the bottles pointedly.

“How does Sasha know what I’m doing with my Fridays?” Martin asked, genuinely baffled, and Tim just flapped a vague hand at him, pulling a corkscrew out of his pocket and opening one of the bottles. “Look, Tim, you don’t - I mean, this is really nice of you, obviously, but-”

“S’been a while, yeah? Since we last caught up?” Tim didn’t look up from where he was busily pouring red wine into two mugs (clean, thankfully) that Martin kept in his little room. Sometimes one cup of tea wasn’t enough. One to drink in too-hot gulps that warmed him through, the next to sip at. He took the mug of wine with a sigh, grimacing a bit. Tannins. But maybe a drink wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. 

“I, um - I suppose so? How’ve you been?” 

“Fine. Good! I mean - Sash is being followed around by some creepy blond man, so that’s not _great_. I offered to walk her home but she said she’d be alright on the tube and if he followed her all the way back to Finsbury Park that was probably a good enough excuse to deck him.” 

“I can’t imagine her hitting anyone,” Martin mumbled, and then realised even as he said it that that wasn’t quite true. Sasha was calm and amiable and easy, but Martin could imagine her squaring up if she felt that someone she cared about was being threatened. She was sound like that, solid. She _cared_ , she cared like a force of nature - well, she cared enough to have sent Tim to his door, anyway. Tim snorted. 

“She did some self-defence classes about a year ago, asked if she could try out some of the moves on me. Trust me, she can handle it. Nearly broke my bloody arm.” In all honesty, Tim looked rather too happy about that. Martin took a sip of wine, rolling it around his mouth as if he could taste oak and red berries and spice like anyone out of a book. No luck. Still, it wasn’t _bad_ , so he had another sip. 

“She’s nice, Sash. I mean, she shouldn’t be sending you up to babysit me, but-”

“I’m not _babysitting_ you!” Tim looked aghast. “Martin Blackwood, _what_ a thing to say. Can’t a man share a few drinks with his very attractive friend without being accused of condescension?” 

“Got someone under the bed, have you?” 

“Not yet I don’t,” Tim winked and Martin stifled a sigh, biting his lower lip. _Tim_. Stupid, lovely, incorrigible Tim. “Seriously, though - you alright? You’ve been a bit, um. I don’t know. Distant? Since you had to move in here, I s’pose, or since drinks the other day. Just wanted to check you’re all good.” Tim leaned back against the wall, lips already a bit winestained, settled like he belonged there. He was good at that, Tim, _belonging_. Perched on the end of Sasha’s desk or leaning against the counter in the breakroom or sprawled on the chair in Jon’s office until he was shooed away. He just made himself comfortable, part of the furniture. It was hard not to feel jealous of that.

“‘Course I am. I mean, I could do without the fear of being eaten up by worms, but it’s alright. I mean, in some ways this is probably a bit nicer than my flat anyway,” Martin sighed. At least it was _quiet_. He had one neighbour with a constantly yapping dog, another that watched Coronation Street at top-volume until he could hear every word through the walls, this was almost peaceful. Almost a holiday. 

“Well, you’re welcome at mine whenever,” Tim said, and Martin looked at him sharply for a second, not sure _how_ he ought to respond to that. Before they’d gone out he’d have laughed it off, made some comment about monopolising Tim’s sofa, but now…

“For a bit of fun?” he asked quietly, dryly, and Tim’s eyes glittered. 

“Sure. If you like.” 

“You sure you can fit me into your busy schedule?” Martin teased, watched a strange little flicker across Tim’s face before he hid it behind the mug, taking another gulp of wine. 

“Oh, I reckon I can fit you in somewhere.” Tim tilted his head a bit. His eyes were nice. Warm and brown and shining with mischief. Martin wanted a closer look, kept his spine straight, stayed just where he was. 

* * * 

He didn’t go home with Tim that night - there was no need, really, not with the cot right there. The wine seemed to taste smoother the more of it he drank (funny, that) and whilst it never quite tasted like berries it was certainly sweet enough on Tim’s lips. Martin was the one to close the gap between them first, to lean in and kiss him and tug him closer. 

It was a bit much, in all honesty, this much contact having been alone for so long, trapped within the walls of his flat. He wasn’t alone now; Martin was wrapped entirely in Tim’s arms, their legs tangled together, Tim’s hand on them both and his breath warm against his neck, Tim’s head on his chest afterwards and their fingers laced together on the pillow - Martin squeezed his eyes tight shut against a swell of emotion that threatened to choke him and turned his face to the wall, felt Tim curve himself against his spine and mumble something he didn’t quite catch. 

In the morning he woke up by himself - back to normal - but there was a still-warm cup of tea next to the cot, and a plate of toast with strawberry jam. 

* * * 

It was a slow process of discovery, really. Martin learned that Tim pressed into kisses to his lips with urgency, but he _melted_ at a brush of lips to his neck. That he was all sharp comments and wicked grins until Martin put a hand in his hair and pulled, that he was liable to tease and mock and generally make a nuisance of himself, but the first time Martin set a hand against his cheek and made him meet his eyes and said _behave yourself, please_ , Tim flushed berry-dark and buried his face against his palm to hide it. 

It became familiar. Martin was still sleeping in the archives more often than not but sometimes - some nights - he was sleeping at Tim’s. 

* * * 

“And you’re sure it’s not-”

“ _No_ , Martin, it’s not _infected_ , it’s not swollen, it’s not unusual, it is a _tongue_ , Martin, it’s just your _tongue_.”

“Well, I’m just - I mean, after what Sash said-”

“I _know_ , but it’s fine. You’re fine. We’re going to be fine.”

* * * 

“Toast?” Tim called from the kitchen, and Martin nodded as he followed him in, barefoot against Tim’s carpet, draping himself against his back with his arms around his shoulders and burying his face in his hair. “ _Oi_ \- can’t do anything if you’re going to fall asleep on me.” 

“Then you shouldn’t keep waking me up at ungodly hours.” 

“It’s _eight_. Perfectly reasonable.” Tim squirmed in his grip so he could turn, giving him a little poke in the ribs and soothing it with a sweet kiss to his lips. “Drink your tea.” 

“Mmhm. M’on it,” Martin mumbled, stepping away to retrieve his mug and covering his mouth with one hand as he yawned. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Bright and breezy, Marto. Or - well, I mean, I’m a bit sore, but no more than I _want_ to be, so.” Tim slammed bread into the toaster and opened one of the cupboards, pulling out a jar of strawberry jam that Martin eyed with delight.

“Oh! You got some in?” 

“Mmhm.” Tim shrugged, fetched a knife and a plate, rolled his shoulders back and hummed softly when Martin reached out to thumb across a red mark on his back where he’d pressed a crop the night before. “That’s not sore. S’just tingly. I mean, might be lying on my stomach for a few days, but-”

“You did earn it.” 

“Yeah.” Tim grinned, twisted to catch Martin’s hand and lean in to steal another kiss. “It wasn’t a complaint. You can do wicked things to me anytime you like.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Martin murmured, set his tea aside and drew Tim into his arms fully where he could nose into his hair, one hand curled at the back of his neck. It was still strange, this, being able to reach out to Tim and know that he’d stay close. Privately, Martin was still convinced that this was a strange sort of show of pity, of compassion, of Tim trying to make him feel better. Under those circumstances he ought to have put a stop to things, but he’d never claimed to be half as good as Tim claimed to think he was. 

It wasn’t even the sex, really. That was nice, it was _lovely_ , it was beyond thrilling to realise that Tim would put himself in his hands and let Martin take him apart into trembling pieces, let him soothe and kiss him back together again, let him give him instruction and direction and correction, when the situation called for it, that was all _great_ , but-

It was more than that. It was hearing Tim’s off-key singing in the shower and watching him defend pineapple on pizza with absolute passion, it was the anthropology books on his shelf that he hadn’t got round to throwing away yet because of the memories they entailed, tucked away next to all the latest novels that Tim kept up with, it was the well-thumbed Discworld novels on the shelf below that Tim came back to again and again, it was the way he had five pillows on his bed but only ever really used two (a firm one beneath, a soft one on top that he normally ended up hugging during the night), it was _knowing_ him. Martin kissed the top of his head and let him go when the toast popped up, feeling marshmallow-soft like Tim could melt him at a touch. 

“I’ll do wicked things to you later, _serduszko_ ,” he promised and Tim snorted, buttering the toast and slathering jam on it before handing the plate back to Martin. 

“Bet you will.” 

He was all confidence, even now, but as they walked into the living room Tim hugged his coffee to his chest and settled on the floor between Martin’s legs, cheek against his knee. Martin stroked through his hair and offered him a bite of toast but Tim shook his head, waved him away - he never ate much in the mornings anyway. 

* * * 

Prentiss was a blur. Screaming, running, blood drying under his fingernails as he corkscrewed a worm out of Jon’s leg, a strange and tenuous moment of calm thereafter and then - the tunnels, the whole seething _mass_ of them, prickling and crawling under his skin-

Martin was wrapped in a blanket on the Archive steps while a paramedic asked him questions that he answered numbly. Tim was being stretchered out, asked much the same questions, on his way to some sort of quarantine, and Martin pressed his face into his hands and just tried to listen. 

_Any history of haemophilia or blood disorders in your family, Tim?_

_No._

_Any allergies?_

_Just strawberries._

_Any dizziness? Trouble breathing?_

_No, no-_

Jon would want a statement from him. Martin wanted to curl himself up and never come out again. He sucked in his breath and felt it settle like a weight in his lungs, lifted his head and waited for the world to settle again.

* * * 

Tim was making toast again. 

It was a routine, now - that was stranger than anything - that Martin would come back to his, and they’d watch a film and curl up on the couch, that Tim would quote along to whatever was on (Lord of the Rings, A Knight’s Tale, Layer Cake), an apparently infinite bank of phrases and jokes kept inside his head. And in the morning Tim would slip out of bed and make tea, and make toast - sometimes eaten in the living room, sometimes in bed. Martin held the jar of strawberry jam in his hands and breathed in the smell of coffee. 

Tim didn’t drink tea, usually, but he _always_ drank it when Martin made it. 

“You’re allergic to strawberries,” Martin said quietly, and Tim looked up like he’d been caught doing something, blinked at Martin and then let his expression shutter into nonchalance. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” 

“So you bought-” Martin held up the jam, and Tim shrugged. 

“Well. You like jam.”

“I do.” 

“And you come round here a bit, and-”

“And?”

“And I s’pose I wanted you to keep coming round.”

“I’ll keep coming here if you don’t have _jam_ , Tim. It’s not the jam that keeps me coming over.” 

“No, I know. I know that. Helps, though.” 

Martin smiled. It did help. Not because it was jam, but because Tim had carved out a section of himself - even as small as a jar’s worth of space in a kitchen cupboard - and kept it just for him. He was used to taking up too much space, too big, too unwieldy, to curling himself close with the sleeves of his jumpers pulled over his hand, using up too much air in apologising for himself and taking that up too. 

“I’ve got a new flat,” he said quietly, and Tim glanced over his shoulder, knife pausing in scraping butter. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmhm. You could, er- I could-”

Tim waited. He wasn’t a patient man, always pushing, prodding, but he could be surprisingly quiet sometimes. Martin put the jam down and twisted his hands together. 

“I’ve bought some marmite,” he said finally, and Tim’s smile was berry-sweet and butter-soft, the kisses he pressed to Martin’s face stuck there like crumbs. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very soft for my boys and their toast preferences
> 
> Kudos & comments soothe my itching soul.
> 
> [Find me on tumblr and say hi!](https://ajcrawly.tumblr.com)


End file.
